#Silicon Avatar

[spectraspecs-writes]

Yoooo Data was playing guitar and I know guitar so I was looking at it, and he was playing classical guitar with nylon strings, but I went “hang on hang on!” Backed up the episode, and homies!! He was playing classical style CORRECTLY, like guitar on the left knee and EVERYTHING, Brent was doing it RIGHT, never change my guy

[sshbpodcast]

Episode 107: Call the Midworf

TNG: "Silicon Avatar" and "Disaster"

This year, your SSHB cast is thankful for usable audio! Yes, something went a little hooey this recording so the track is a bit...rough-sounding, even for us. We've done our best to smooth out the rough edges, but we are aware and sorry that it's a bit funky this week.

But what's going on in the shows? Well, first up Data suddenly has old colonist memories again as a relative of one of the long-dead arrives to study a new Crystalline Entity attack in "Silicon Avatar". After that, there's too many plots to keep track of after the Enterprise hits a quantum filament in "Disaster".

Also this week: Caitlin makes it weird, a subtle sponsorship request, and totally sly recording orders.

Also also: yes, this week's title only refers to one episode, which we usually avoid, but tell me YOU could resist "Midworf". Thought so.

Timestamps: synopses: 0:27; Silicon Avatar: 12:16; Disaster: 37:07

[grayrazor]

It’s kind of a missed opportunity for TNG that they only had the Crystalline Entity in a couple episodes. It seemed so eldritch in “Datalore,” this cosmic horror wandering the universe making faustian deals with rogue androids.

[hitchell-mope]

Is she like Pulaski? Because I hated Pulaski.

[cutiepieautistic]

Regressor! Aang stimboard

×/×/× ×/× ×/×/×

[stolentrekblr]

Apparently the plan against this blog is just reposting from my main. While that's mildly annoying to me, it's making sourcing uncredited posts much easier since I'm not fighting the tumblr search function

Also I agree: I have impeccable taste

[marxistgnome]

Every time theres like a fucking weirdo on the enterprise theyre like hey data can u do me a solid and its something creepy as hell like tell me where ur off switch is and he just does it cos he doesn't understand the implications of that specifically cos its not something explicitly malicious and for the love of god can someone show him a powerpoint ir something PLEASE

[lowpawly]

I keep trying to think about things to talk about that don't involve me posting about hot anime women and exposing too much of my psychology to the world. not much else to say these days frankly. I've got this i guess

[startrekplotnthemes]

Season 5 Episode 4 Silicone Avatar

Riker and some of the crew are assisting colonists who are setting up their home on the world of Melona IV when the Crystalline Entity shows up scouring the landscape. The crew and most of the colonists manage to escape underground though Riker's romantic interest is caught in the blast. Eventually a rescue team from the Enterprise shows up, allowing Riker, Data and Crusher to make their escape. Following their remarkable survival the xenobiologist Kila Marr shows up aboard the Enterprise due to her expertise on the Crystalline Entity. In a meeting it is revealed that she does not trust Data due to Lore previously working with the entity in destroying Omicron Theta. Picard decides to pair the two together in order to encourage Marr to overcome her prejudices against Data.

Marr is initially very hostile to Data wondering if the reason his party was untouched being because Data was in collusion with the enemy yet Data denies such an involvement. Yet as they work together she begins to see his earnestness and devotion to the crew and helping others. Picard seeks a way to communicate with the entity while Marr personally wishes to see it destroyed. While working with Data to communicate with it, she learns that Data possesses the memories of all of Omnicron Theta. She eventually asks him if he recalls any memories of her son requesting that he read out his journal in his voice allowing her to feel in touch with him once more.

When it comes time to communicate with the creature, Data has worked with Marr to identify graviton pulses as a successful method of communication. As this communication is established however, Marr is overcome with her grief and arranges locking the pulse into a higher resonance which causes the creature to shatter. She is sent to her quarters having gone against orders and ruining her career while pleading with Data as an avatar of her son telling them that she did it for him. Data tells the doctor that her son would not have approved of this endeavor and that she has acted against her very status as a xenobiologist, leaving Marr to consider the repercussions of her actions.

I think it is useful having these episodes where there is a sort of bad ending as Marr is successful in her actions. It is the classic tale of vengeance and whether or not getting ones desire for revenge is worth it. Marr is obsessed with vengeance due to the feelings of loss and sadness she feels at her own son's loss. Though she acts against orders there are some merits to its destruction, Riker later fields the idea as well though he has also lost a life to the entity. While some could argue for its destruction, one issue that exists is that they were never able to properly communicate with them. It is left a mystery if the entity has been consumed out of malice or hunger. Marr is the one who played the judge for it's actions on impulse and now it can not be determined as to why the Crystalline Entity ate planets.

[navi-in-disguise]

The sticky hand incident.

I hope you guys find this as funny as I did, I'd love to hear recommendations for the future too!

. ' . ' . ' . ' . ' . ' . ' . ' . ' . ' . ' . ' . ' . ' . ' . ' . ' . ' .

You knew it was a bad idea, of course it was.

Messing with the Deja Blue team overall, was stupid and reckless. And yet here you were about to pull off the dumbest thing you could have ever even thought of.

You had been cleaning in your dorm a few days back, and you had come across a little box of goodies you had brought with you from earth. They were all silly little arcade trinkets, a few cheap plastic dinos, those little parachute guys that always got tangled up or broke, and a half a dozen of different colored, and sized, sticky hands. The remnants of the going away party your friends had thrown for you before you had been deployed as a biological scientist to help with awakening and caring for recoms here on pandora.

Of course once you found the little goody box, you had become too distracted to finish your cleaning and organizing, which admittedly you had barely done any of. You instead took time to clear a small spot on your shelf to set the little toys down, before gently grabbing one of the larger, pink sticky hands, still in its plastic case, and dear god did chaos ensue.

Over the next few days you had done nothing more but annoy the hell out of your colleagues, using the sticky hand to swipe papers from their desks, knocking over coffee cups, and the dull thud of the sticky silicone echoing around the room. Even now you sat in the mess hall with your scientist buddies, casually eating with your dominant hand, your other hand carefully squishing the pink sticky hand between your fingers. The bland mush of the RDA’s food was eaten without much complaint, and soft laughs echoed from the table. Half way across the room sat the recoms tables, the tables raised higher to accommodate the larger Na’vi forms of the resurrected soldiers.

They knew you, barely, but they still knew you, you had been one of the first faces they had seen when their new bodies had been awakened. You had also been kind enough to let them gain their bearings a little better before you had started shining lights in their eyes, and snapping your fingers by their ears.

Most of the Deja Blue team spoke about you, some were more.. Crude than others. Especially corporal Wainfleet. There was just something about you that really seemed to draw him in, and he spent his time trying to get to know you better, especially because you were technically the groups doctor, but nothing had been successful as of yet. You would only smile and nod at his flirting words before you would always go back to your work. Always crowded around by the other scientists he considered dull and useless.

Even now, as you sat there zoning out, Lyle couldn't help but shoot you glances, admiring the way your eyelashes framed your beautiful eyes, or the way you slowly chewed your food as you stared at nothing in particular. Of course Mansk would notice and elbow at him, making him roll his eyes and turn back to focus at his slightly different diet before him, his back now facing you once more. 

Ruby, a fellow scientist, and avatar user noticed Lyles' glance, and she smirked, looking back at you as you silently ate, still messing with the sticky hand between your fingers, and a dark look passed over her face. 

“(Y/N)..” Her speaking your name immediately snapped you out of your daze, and you hum in acknowledgement as you take another bite of your mushy peas. “(Y/N) i have a dare for you, if you do it, I’ll pay you fifty bucks.. If you don't, you owe me fifty, deal?” You couldn't help the way your eyes narrowed at the challenge, Ruby, and her close friend Kleine had a painful habit of pulling pranks, and getting in loads of trouble around the base.

“What's the dare..?” You questioned cautiously, and she shook her head, immediately shutting down the questions. “No, (Y/N), You know it doesn't work like that here, accept it or reject it, then I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”

You can't help but groan, wondering what you could possibly be getting yourself into, and Ruby snickered, taking a sip of her drink. “What? Too much of a pussy? If you don't think you can do it just hand over the fifty now and we’ll be fine yea?” With a quick shake of your head and a scoff, you fold your arms, your heart beginning to pump at the excitement of the secret. “Absolutely not Ruby, I accept your dare, what could you possibly have me do?”

Ruby’s eyes lit up as she leaned over the table, her soft brown eyes darting over to Lyles form, his back still facing your table. “Now we’re talking, ok listen close..” You leaned in to meet her gaze closely. “I want you to hit Lyles bald fucking head with your precious sticky hand, and dont say you cant, we’ve all seen your aim with that damn thing. Just one, solid hit.. Think you can manage..?”

Your eyes immediately widened as your eyes shot over to the Recom table, almost making eye contact with Z-Dog, and she seemed curious about whatever conversation the two of you could be having, but she quickly went back to minding her own business. “Ruby!” you hissed, making her chuckle. “Do you know how bad of an idea that is? If Lyle doesn’t get his hands on me, Quaritch fucking will! I don't want to run laps with Kleine again..”

With a roll of her eyes, Ruby held out her hand, sighing. “Pay up then princess..” You groaned again as you slowly stood up. “No.. no you know what.. I'm faster than them anyways, just watch Ruby, you’re gonna pay ME fifty, and an ice cream.” Ruby didn’t argue, elbowing the scientist next to her as you adjusted the grip on your sticky hand, and slowly began approaching the recom table.

You were small compared to the Na’vi bodied soldiers, so they really didn’t pay you much mind as you approached Lyle from behind. You could feel your heart in your throat, stomach heavy in anxiety at the stupid stunt you were about to pull. Z-Dog only looked up, barely seeing you reel your arm back, and you glancing back at Ruby's predatory smile, before there was a sharp-

 THWAP!

The sound echoed through the mess hall like a bullet, and all forms of conversation immediately went silent as wide eyes stared upon your form, arm slung forwards, and the bright pink stretchy hand pulled taught in a leading trail to the hand pressed against Lyles head, sticking to the bald dome of his head. 

The entirety of the Deja Blue team looked absolutely shocked, Quaritchs eyes wide, and Lopez holding back laughs. But you didn’t notice them, because Lyle was slowly turning to face you, with a downright stunned expression, and you felt antsy. You knew you had to run, like, right now, and you dropped your end of the sticky hand, watching as the offending pink toy snapped back towards him, and hit him in the face, making him jump, and soon he was leaping to his feet with a loud growl that rumbled through the air, tripping over his own feet as he struggled to escape the middle of the bench, falling to his knees as his foot caught caught on the bench. 

That seemed to snap you out of your own freeze response, and you shrieked as you began running as fast as your little legs would carry, hearing as Lyle took a deep breath from the mask around his neck, and began chasing you. “(Y/N) get your ass back here!” was his snarled response as his own feet thundered after you, leaving the entire mess hall with the image of Lyle, pink sticky hand hanging from the back of his head, chasing after your retreating form as you screamed in panic, “Wait! Lemme tell you something! Let me tell you something!! WAIT!”

[hitchell-mope]

You stupid bitch.

[drawyourblankas]

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[beverlygifs]

Star Trek: The Next Generation [5x04 "Silicon Avatar"]

[sanders1665]

We're not people anymore—we're pixels, posturing avatars in a never-ending gladiator match of validation. Each tap, each swipe, another offering to the algorithm gods. Welcome to the feed, baby. Step right up. Strip yourself down to marketable traits and watch the likes flood in like dirty money through a cracked Vegas slot.

The feeds are everything. The feeds are nothing. They're just human vending machines now—stick a coin in, out pops someone’s trauma, their tits, their kid’s birthday, their dog’s death, their hot take on NATO, their #GRWM grief routine. It’s all content. All of it. And goddamn it if we’re not feeding each other into the beast with smiling faces and monetized hashtags.

Political leaders don't debate—they stream. War criminals with ring lights and branded hoodies. Soldiers of the dumb leading armies of dopamine addicts. Left, right, center? Nah. It’s all just teams now. Just jerseys. And behind the jerseys? Content creators. Megaphones with egos. Opinions wrapped in sponsored segments.

And TikTok? That’s the town square where Shakespeare got replaced by someone lip-syncing about their break-up while bouncing in yoga pants. Instagram is just soft-core capitalism—filter your face, filter your life, but don’t you dare filter your reach. Got a modeling gig? Great. But make sure you clock in at CVS this weekend because fame don’t cover rent unless it’s viral.

Facebook? Like a community notice board run by madmen and bots. Join a group? Sure. Want to bond over asbestos? Enlighten your soul with naked yoga and essential oils that cure cancer? It's all there. Fifty million dopamine churches, each one with its own gospel, its own snake oil priest.

And X—oh, X. A cesspool dressed up in silicon armor, run by a man-boy who thinks he's Tony Stark but acts like a bored Reddit mod with a God complex. Every take is a flame war. Every thread a minefield. And we keep scrolling through the carnage, thumbs twitching like lab rats on speed.

Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. There’s a plane crash. A school shooting. A fucking cat wearing sunglasses and playing piano. A celebrity redemption arc. A breakdown. A comeback. A murder. A make-up tutorial. A ghost sighting. An alien. A child dancing at a funeral while someone vlogs their grief.

We’re in a constant state of voyeurism and exhibitionism, both at once. The orgy of self-exposure, the bloodsport of public opinion. You want private content? Pay up. You want the truth? Scroll past it. You want peace of mind? You’re in the wrong century.

This isn’t a society anymore. It’s a contest. A rat race on LSD where the finish line keeps moving and the prize is a poisoned trophy.

So here’s my message, not that they’ll hear it—too busy counting followers, likes, clout. To the influencers and the brand consultants, to the blue checkmark prophets and the dopamine pimps:

Fuck off.

Give me back sanity. Give me back privacy. Give me back a world where your value wasn’t measured in engagement metrics and trending hashtags.

We’re drowning in noise. And somewhere deep down, someone still remembers silence.

But not today.

Because the feed’s still scrolling.

[korpuskat]

Chosen Avatar - Part 1

[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (GN, has a vagina) Rating: E WC: 2.1k Contents: PWP & Megatron Ramattra. Transformers-typical size difference. >Part 2 ===

There were a few things that had been at the top of your mind when you first saw him after this… transformation. It should’ve been his size. Instead, it was the glowing purple of his faceplate, the darkened slits that hid his optics now illuminated, radiating a brilliant royal shade- and for the first time, you could see his gaze settle on you. It had stolen your breath then, but now it’s even worse.

His optics rake over your nude form and it makes you embarrassed. A kind of shyness you haven’t felt with him in so long-- but like this? Everything is new.

He’s hardly done anything, hardly can do anything. With the aleatory effects of this gift, he’s much too big for his previous methods. No, you’ve had to get… creative. His thumb- massive and gray and strange and new- sweeps over your body, petting at your chest, then down over your ribs, brushing roughly between your legs. It’s crude, no precision at all, and yet still as painfully effective as his touch has always been on you.

He stops there over the heat of your sex, lets you whimper and rut against his cool metal.

“I thought you were small before,” He coos, his deepened, reverberating voice only makes you shiver harder in the palm of his hand. “Look at you now, aching for just the tip of one finger…” This, too, is alien now- a harsher tone that distorts his speech, like it’s been fed through an old speaker somewhere further down in his throat than it has been before.

“Rama…” You whine, grabbing at the edges of his rubber inlays. “Please…”

Ramattra hums, and even this noise has been altered by his new power, but does nothing to sate the heat in your belly.

“Here.” He says, and picks you up with his other hand. You make some sound in protest as being handled so casually, but honestly, the fact he lifts you even easier than before, that he just grabbed you like a doll— you whimper softly as he adjusts you, pushes you to lay back against the base of his thumb. This would be strange enough, except his fingers curl possessively towards you. The tip of his pinky sliding up along your thigh. It’s a good pressure, even if the angle is unusual.

Why he’s moved you becomes obvious only a minute later. His palm lowers, brings you level with his hips- and you watch, entranced as his other hand pulls off his pelvic plate.

What lies beneath is nothing like it was before. It had once been made specifically for you, for your tiny, fragile, human body- all purple translucent silicone and delightful waves, little nodules of firmness with his inlaid lights, now his cock stands as a monstrous obelisk, longer than you are tall. It’s dull silver, the same as his body though you aren’t sure if it is also now entirely metal, but it stands out with the base painted in that new red accent. The head is longer, less rounded and more pointed like an arrow, complete with a half-dozen more, smaller ridges beneath the head, almost making it look like a double sided key through the middle of the shaft. Below that, seams that match the ones on his faceplate run down the rest of the length- each glowing softly with purple light. And none of that is even what holds your attention.

“That’s certainly new.” Ramattra muses, gaze settling on the exact same feature this gift has given him. With his other hand, he touches the tip of his cock- and his fingertip comes away slick. A tiny slit in the head leaks a silvery purple fluid that slides lazily over the oblong head. Lubricant, some still functioning objective part of your mind supplies, but given the dubious origin of Ramattra’s benefactor, you can’t help but wonder if it is actually precum. Gods, you hope so. Heat builds in your belly, leaves unable to stop yourself from rutting against his finger as you watch him gently prod at his appendage. He smears the fluid across the tip, making it shiny and faintly purple- and heat rushes from his vents.

Cautiously, he curls two fingers around himself, uses the lubricant to ease his stroke. Above you, Ramattra moans- a shuddering soft little noise that you’d almost miss if you weren’t listening. And that alone is enough to make you grind harder against his fingertip.

You hear it as he turns, pistons shifting just so his gaze moves back to you. He watches, purple optics burning as you work yourself against his smooth new exterior- and when you tip your head back to look up at him, his chest rumbles in wordless praise. His grasp on himself adjusts, the slick noises of his fist gliding through lubricant even louder- and his finger presses harder into your skin. You gasp, brace yourself against the base of his thumb, nails digging into the little seams between plates as he rocks the finger against you.

You watch as the giant metal appendage rubs on you, nuzzling blindly between your legs. As thick as your forearm, the weight of it alone is thrilling. You adjust your position so he’s pressed right against your clit with every thrust, the underside of the finger slowly beginning to glisten with your own wetness.

“Yes,” He purrs, and you think it’s just how good his hand feels- lubricated and slick against himself. But as you look to him again. the light of his optics has darkened into a wine-like shade, locked perfectly onto your body writhing in his palm. Your grinding against him, your enjoyment of his body- that is the source of his pleasure. Heat surges through you, and if that wasn’t enough- “Keep going.” He urges you, his voice still new and staticky and rumbling and you can’t possibly deny him.

You dig your nails harder into his palm and meet each thrust- your noises a strained, staccato tempo in time with his movements, slowly building the pressure between your legs. It’s so imprecise, a blunt assault on your body that’s hotter more for the effort, for the slapdash connection you’ve forged than because of the sensation itself.

Until his digit slips too far up.

You choke; the plate of the last segment of his finger ends leaving you with a sudden little gap between his plates and with it, a complete lapse in pressure. This alone is jarring, but it’s the downstroke- the sudden return of the weight of him that makes your legs twitch around him.

And Ramattra- his head looming above you, so far away- does not miss this. In an instant, his motion changes, perfectly choreographed to rub the edge of the plate against your clit every single time. Like this, it’s not grinding, not the slow waves of incessant pressure, but an active stroke, flicking your clit like a switch-- one that keeps pace with the hand on his cock. And the pleasure shifts immediately, no longer a slow smoldering build, but a quick start tinderbox.

“Ramattra,” You gasp, clutching at him, hands scrabbling across cold metal as he ruts his finger against you- and in his lap his hand speeds up. Each stroke marked with a wet shlick of his own precum, the hum of his fans, the hiss of steam- and when you throw your head back all you see is purple. That gaze, knowing that he’s watching- it’s too much.

Your hips jump, desperately meeting each press of his fingertip, gasping, crying out his name as it pushes you over the edge. Your thighs tremble on each side of his finger, trying to clamp down on it and failing. When your body fails to keep its pace, his does not- keeping rubbing that edge of his plate over your clit again and again and again- dragging your high on and on in a merciless display for himself.

And Ramattra groans. Deep and loud, it vibrates through his entire frame, into every inch of your skin that touches his palm. You tear your eyes open, stare back up into his optics- blazing, burning orbs of light as his voice glitches, fights through static with every noise-

“A-ah.” His voicebox stutters, breaks as he fights to moan your name- and his body lurches forward. The purple light dims, flickers like a candle-- and you can’t even breathe as he cums. His hand works himself with a speed that must hurt, but from his chest he makes a noise you’d never known was him- like a radio going out of tune, pitched a half-step up- raw, unfiltered, erroneous data and he spills over himself.

His finger on your pussy finally stops, but there's no sleek offlining into a system reset- it's rough. All the air in his ventilation that was being pushed out suddenly reverses flow, his chest broadening in a desperate inhale. Silvery, lavender fluid coats his hand as his pace falters, slowing as he heaves, gasps through his orgasm in a way you’ve never seen him do before.

He keeps going- keeps stroking himself until his fingers tremble and another deep groan slips from his vocoder. He stops, lowering his hand to his hip and, gods you have no idea what this power has done to him because his cock twitches, a last few stray droplets of cum sliding down over his ridges, pouring down the seams in gorgeous, perfect streaks.

You shouldn’t, but your mind is still too lust hazed, still half grinding against his finger just from the sight of Ramattra’s cum. You reach out towards his soaked hand in a silent plea, grasping at the air. Whatever has changed in him means he must finally get his own afterglow, because Ramattra obliges, bringing his dripping palm to you. And oh, you shouldn’t, but there’s no logic in the world that could stop you from stumbling to the edge of his hand just to lean to the other and lick.

Your mouth tingles- and your first thought is fruit, that it’s sweet like juice. The second, however, is that it’s like licking a battery, but turned up to eleven-- like licking a car battery. It’s sour in a way you know isn’t physically possible, electricity manually activating your nerves in a way they aren’t meant to be. Tart and sparkling and it’s like grapes just before they’re about to ferment and damn Megatron because it’s not even bad.

You go in for another taste and Ramattra groans, apparently starting to come to his senses as he separates his hands, leaving you to collapse back against his fingers. Which is fine, as you immediately enjoy how the heat of your skin dissipates into his cool digits. Above you, you can see the plumes of steam still slipping from Ramattra’s vents, his optics dulled into an easy amethyst.

“That was… different.” He offers after a minute, his voice box slowly coming back to its regular working order, but still not pristine. “I’m not sure I appreciate this being messier.” He shifts his cum-coated hand, the fluid there slipping, shimmering in the light.

“Never seemed to bother you before.” You grin up at him, lazily lounging against one of his cleaner fingers and conjure images of how much of a mess you’ve left him with before- on cock and fingers and faceplate.

“I did not mind when it was your fluids.” Ramattra grumbles.

“Well,” You can’t help yourself, the endorphins making you too loose, too giddy to not prod at him. “Maybe you should have asked the alien warlord what he was going to do to your dick before accepting interdimensional power.”

A noise rumbles from Ramattra’s chest, something between a scoff and a laugh. “Yes, I’ll make sure to take notes for next time.” He rests there for a minute, content enough to relax and approach re-regulation and watch you do the same. Eventually, however. “I should clean up.”

You nod, stretch in his palm and prepare to climb down onto the floor-

His palm rises. You sink to your knees with the force of it, clutching at the seams below you as you turn, trying to figure out what he’s doing- and he brings you up to his shoulder. To his scarf. You blink a few times, but smile as you force your wobbling legs to work long enough to transfer yourself onto his frame.

The fabric is unwieldy to climb on, folded together in fat bunches that give way as you try to navigate them, reliant on the hard seams of Ramattra’s new body just to find a good perch. But the payoff is worth it. From here, his vent heat is everywhere. The steam has warmed the scarf thoroughly, leaving it toasty and soothing on your nude body. You don’t even have time to make a comment on how cozy he is before you’re slipping into an easy sleep.

[evviejo]

STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION // S5E4 Silicon Avatar You say you did it for him, but I do not believe he would have wanted that.